


Escape Artist

by kvancelot (KVancelot)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Escapism, Friendship, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KVancelot/pseuds/kvancelot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the best escape artists don't always get away. A introspective piece dealing with Gil Grissom's thoughts on life, escapism, and cars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape Artist

Sometimes there was just a need to drive. Sometimes there were things in Gil Grissom's life that couldn't be whisked away by a rollercoaster, and that's when he took to the road.

Once he was outside of Vegas, there wasn't much left to do but drive. Drive and think. This was his escape that no one knew about; his own secret, reserved for those times in his life he felt so low that the bottom of the Grand Canyon was too high up.

He didn't want to feel low. He didn't like the idea that he was pitying himself for something. What kind of person felt so sorry for themselves that they had to escape everything but the road and the car? Then again, there was reason he drove; in the car, there's nothing to do but think, on a rollercoaster there are no thoughts.

So, in a very strange, psychological way, Gil figured that he wanted to resolve his issues instead of ignoring them. He pushed the pedal a little harder and felt the car pull even faster. He was probably doing eighty-five at this point, but he wasn't looking down at the gauge.

He was running. The thought occurred to him somewhere in the middle of nowhere and he pulled his foot off the accelerator. The car slowed and he leaned back when it came to a full stop in the middle of an abandoned freeway.

He was running.

In reality, he wasn't running from Catherine, but he was running from himself. Truth be told, he had hurt her, and now they were both paying for it. He couldn't have just told her that Eddie was cheating, he had to tell her the 'right' way. Now, she was mad at him, Ed was out of the picture, and Gil felt like he'd betrayed the one person in the world he shouldn't have.

Sighing, Grissom rested his head on the edge of the steering wheel. This was his escape? If he were an escape artist, he'd probably be dead by now.

There was a moment that the only thing he could think about was his mother telling him that everything would be fine. She was right - eventually everything would be fine.

Gil stepped out of his car and closed the door. And then he remembered why that car in particular was his escape. It was beautiful, sleek, fast...

He'd gotten the car rather shamefully in college. Gil had been playing poker and his friend was in a jam. The kid, Sam, needed money fast so he was selling his car. Grissom just happened to be interested, and found himself with a car less than a week later.

It wasn't so impressive then, but now it was something to be looked at. Once, twice, as often as anyone could catch a glance.

1974 Stingray. He nodded and stepped up to the car, running a finger down the side of the body. Underneath the desert dust the car was black, but originally it had been dark green. The interior was still silver, though. If he was going to repaint it, he had to keep the interior the same.

Gil frowned and looked around, then back to the car. What good was it? Even in the car, his problems were unclear. He needed an answer, and the only thing he could think of was 'wait.' That's what got him in trouble in the first place.

He would wait, though. That's what he had to do. He had to give her space to get her life in order, and he had do his job.

Grissom got back into his car and started it up. He wasn't about to stop driving. It wasn't hard to get away in that car, and maybe for a few hours, that's just what he needed.

Accelerating up was always a thrill. That was the part that reminded him of a coaster. But after that, there was nothing else but the hum of the road and him.

Maybe he was running.

Maybe screaming away from Las Vegas at eighty-five miles an hour was the best place to be.

Maybe he didn't have an answer, and maybe he never would.


End file.
